So let me see if I can figure this out: McDonalds makes a commercial that pokes fun of those horrible Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish contraptions and the people who like them. It makes everyone laugh because it is so awful. Years later, and completely missing the irony, someone else licenses the concept to manufacture a new version of the Big Mouth Billy Bass that now sings the McDonald's Filet O Fish song that was used in the commercial that was originally produced to mock those animatronic fish and the people who buy them in the first place. At $20 a pop.

It's like a horrible, viscious circle that keeps spawning useless, expensive crap and bad marketing ideas, each one worse than the previous, in a never-ending loop of bad taste. You'd have to be a moron to buy one.

And yet I stood there at Walgreen's and pushed the play button on him three times in a row while I waited to check out, singing along with every "whooo!" until I realized the cashier was not only unimpressed, but literally scowling at me. It's a shame that I turned off the video camera just as she began to chastize me in front of the other customers, because they all laughed when she said, "Three times is enough, honey, give the fish a break."

And I have to admit that I'm dying to hear the Club Remix Bonus Track.

It was almost two full seconds of airtime surrounded on both sides by some show about four guys traveling around the country in a bus trying to accomplish everything on Bucket List. So I guess that means I can cross "Appear on MTV" off my own Bucket List. If I even had a Bucket List. And if being on MTV were a part of it. Which it probably wouldn't be. And of course, you can't even recognize me. But still, it was quite excitin'.

YOU. ARE. JEALOUS.

You can watch the whole episode here. I'm somewhere in the middle, animated for about two seconds.

A few months ago a lawyer emailed me and asked for my permission to use this image on some MTV show I'd never heard of before:

It felt nice to get a non-threatening letter from a lawyer about my website, so without giving it much thought, I said "sure, go ahead." But then later it occurred to me that I probably should have gotten a few more details first. Even though I had already given my consent, I emailed back and asked in what context my picture would be used, because I had begun to imagine the worst (ridicule, derision, Jersey Shore, etc). They were kind enough to respond, and told me that they wanted to use it for some innocuous reason that I can't specifically recall on an upcoming show called The Buried Life. And to think that I didn't even win the costume contest that Halloween.

Cut to five months later, and the show is finally debuting tomorrow (Monday) night on MTV. They never guaranteed they would actually use my image on the show, and they never told me what episode it might air in if they even did, and the total cumulative airtime would probably amount to less than two seconds maximum, but I'm excited for my Prime Time debut nonetheless and have set up my DVR accordingly.

Unless this was all a ploy just to get me to watch their show, in which case they are diabolical and I applaud them.

When I first saw this video online a couple years ago I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated...

...until I realized that it was most likely fake, since infrared or thermographic flatulence would appear to be the same hue or color as the body, if not lighter, wouldn't it? Plus if it were real, the sheer volume was disturbing and that subject would surely have some major intestinal issues that might even require hospitalization. After a quick google search, I was confronted with the disappointment that it was indeed fraudulent flatulence. Can't one trust the internet anymore?

And THENI saw this animated GIF on a web forum the other day, which re-ignited the same sense of shock and awe that I had felt years before, only at least this color representation seemed more realistic and plausible:

But the location of the emission seemed a little too high, and I had already been burned once before, so I went on another web search to see if I could verify the authenticity. Alas, I couldn't locate the source, even with the tantalizing clues that this video apparently aired on NBC and The Travel Channel? What the what?

And THEN I found this sadly static image, which has a slightly more respectable attribution than any of the previous examples, having apparently come from SciencePhotos.com:

But how can you ever know for sure? So I tried researching the origins of the image or the lab/photographer that captured it, but authentication still eluded me. Seriously, with the abundance of information available at my fingertips within the world wide web, this shouldn't be so difficult, should it?

And THEN I realized I was spending way too much time investigating farts on the intarwebs and I shuddered in self-disgust as my eyes welled up with bitter tears of regret. But I ignore my pride and pass these findings along to you in the name of science. Make of it what you will and take from it what you can.

Yeah, it's cold. It was nearly -20° outside when I woke up this morning, not including the windchill. It's also very snowy. Ever since the Christmas Day snowstorm, I've been continuously shoveling myself out.

Shoveling is one of my least favorite jobs in the world, second only to mowing the lawn, so I try to make a grand show of it for all my neighbors. It's all a part of my secret plan. Every time I bump into a neighbor while shoveling or mowing the lawn, I make sure to remark about how much I hate that particular task, very consciously hoping that they will remember my remark the next time they are shoveling or mowing their own yards and perhaps find it in their hearts to do mine as well. It's not such a clever or subtle trick, but it's actually worked quite often in the past. So I've stuck with it.

But a couple nights ago I was shoveling and a neighbor stepped out of the duplex next to my house. It was dark and I couldn't tell if I recognized him or not, so I casually shoveled my way over in his direction until I was close enough to say "Hey," and do a casual neighborly wave. He said "Hey," back and then went about his business. I didn't recognize him but I had to play it cool if I was going to con him into shoveling my walk the next time it snowed, and he seemed like he was going to be a tough nut to crack.

Finally, after I pretended to push snow around every which way I could within his vicinity for a good five minutes, the man finally broke the awkward silence and said, "Cold enough for ya?" which is one of my least favorite rhetorical questions of all time. But it was also an opening. For some reason, my first instinct was to reply, "You're telling me!" but I quickly realized that wouldn't make sense in the context, so midway through I tried to jump start my secret plan by remarking, "Shoveling is the worst!" but it all mixed together.

"You're the worst," I told my new neighbor whom I had never met.

I took way too long to recover, and then just babbled, "I mean it's the worst. This is the worst. Shoveling is the worst. Man do I hate this. I didn't mean you were the worst. Ha ha, that's funny. Obviously I wouldn't know if you were the worst since we never met... I'm Dan by the way."

"Tom, we just moved in." Then he turned away.

"Oh okay Tom, well let me know if you ever need anything. Feel free to knock, that's what neighbors are for!" But I think it was too late. I doubt Tom will be shoveling my walk anytime soon. I wanted to stick my head in the snow and die.

My mom cut my hair until I was nearly 18, which means she has cut my hair for the majority of my life so far. From my curly blond baby locks all the way to the eventual and unfortunate side-spike/mullet combo. And not to knock my mom's haircutting ability in any way, but I kinda looked like a kid whose mom cut his hair.

Of course, I thought nothing of it at the time. I went to a catholic school and wore uniforms all day and didn't really care what I looked like until the 7th or 8th grade, which is around the same time that I adopted the daily routine of deodorant, and everything just snowballed from there. Now I get my haircut every four weeks to the day and I'm quite particular about it.

This is all making me sound like some grubby little runt of a kid, but I was actually the opposite. Except for the haircuts.

You see, my mother was not a trained stylist in anyway. She just had a husband, four kids, a pair of scissors, and a limited budget. Let me remind you of some of the results:

But that's not the worst of it. Apparently my dad was such a big Star Trek fan in his youth, that he always requested the angular "Spock" sideburns treatment at the barber. This continued into his adulthood and marriage, when my mom took over his haircutting duties and honed her techniques.

I don't think she ever actually realized that my father's haircut was Star Trek inspired. She just thought that's the way guys were doing it in those days. So due to her limited haircutting experience, that particular distinctive hairstyle was also transferred onto me by default.

Which means that when I wasn't running around looking like the hydrocephalic wolfchild pictured above, I was running around looking like this: